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My Lips to God/dess's Ears

My Lips to God/dess's Ears

My Lips to God/dess's Ears
 
It could be glass,
It could be fire,
this crushed
mountain I find
my soles grasping 
as I wend wayless 
this way 
 
whose brambles,
fecund, densely twined,
would slow my progress
should I hew to the
imposing, its 
shadow on
the shine.
 
Instead a magical
machete appears
in my left hand, my
right hand, though 
I was trained 
to think
it not,
 
made of 
a quadrillion 
sparkling suns, 
bidding me 
onward.
 
A wee black
and white butterfly,
nearly invisible,
appears before
me, flittering
my focus.
 
We are given the keys
to this kingdom with 
manifold doors to 
pry at each and 
every turn. 
 
Listen.
The wood thrush
sends its sonorous 
spell onto the green 
ethers, other worlds 
blooming on her 
sylvan song.
 
Look.
A lady slipper 
orchard keeps watch,
time, under the rafter
of dappling light 
tuned to these 
wood’s winds 
borne of the 
heavens.
 
We are gifted 
the means 
to arrive 
here, 
ever lost
to being found.
 
And our breath asks: 
how then, where then, 
shall I go? 
 
The multiverse
answers:
 
this 
is why 
you are 
here.
 
To yield this.
 
To know this.
 
And all that 
comprises. 
 
Hear the 
wood thrush.
Trust her ineffable 
siren — calling, 
calling...
 
The destination
maddening our 
kind’s wandering,
occupying its crosshairs,
its pilgrim’s progressing,
has long ago been 
arrived at, with 
each, every 
footfalling.
 
There is 
no wrong
turn, says
the cloud 
passing
by.
 
Yield.
Yield
 
Loose the
coils twined
before and all
around, it
whispers.
 
See day
become night
become day,
anon.
 
Find yin receiving
yang, birthing 
concord out
of discord —
 
as a luna moth
rouses the 
settle of 
night.
 
Confluence.
 
Convergence.
 
A new full
that will not tear
itself apart.
 
Move 
like it.
For here 
there is no 
against.
 
Here is a 
stillness that
flows, as ever,
heart beating, 
blood flowing, 
cells happening, 
ceasing, atoms 
becoming
 
life on
earth.
 
Stream.
Like 
her.
 
Course 
and make 
sanctuary
for vastness
teeming
 
that would not be
were it not for your current,
your undercurrents,
your gaze, your
presence
 
here.
 
A place 
that is always 
right where
we are.
 
All 
is.
 
And the holy 
wheel turns.
 
And ever
unfolds
 
as ever.
 
A map
as ancient
as air.
 
And I supplicate
the summer
breeze.
 
A petal
falls into
the soft hold
of the brook;
lighting down,
downstream, 
it whispers:
 
bygones,
bygones.
 

*

[ Happy, holy, healthy solstice, one and all! ]

© 2020 by Eve Moore.
© Photo: Arnold Edwards

Eve Moore: Once a professional writer of advertising, I saw the light & it has shown me words of a different nature. And so I take them down & offer them up. And all is well. 

“When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.”
—Jimi Hendrix

This poem was submitted exclusively to CrystalWind.ca by Eve Moore.


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